Assault and Batteries
by Vikki3
Summary: Top secret missile plans have been stolen from the U.S. Army, and Lee has only a few hours to retrieve them. Just his luck: he stumbles into Amanda. There will be 9 chapters.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Assault and Batteries

Author: Vikki

Disclaimer: The SMK characters and the Agency are copyrighted to Warner Brothers and Shoot the Moon Productions. I'm borrowing them for my own amusement, and I'm not profiting from doing so. This story and any new characters I have created are copyrighted to me; please don't distribute or reproduce my story without permission. 

Timeline: First season, between "There Goes The Neighborhood" and "If Thoughts Could Kill"

Summary: Top secret missile plans have been stolen from the U.S. Army, and Lee has only a few hours to retrieve them. Just his luck: he stumbles into Amanda. 

Rating: PG

Author's note 1: I wanted to try something outside my "comfort zone" as a writer. My SMK comfort zone is mid to late third season and mid-fourth season to early post series, so first season is definitely far, far outside. I hope this works for you.

Author's note 2: To all grammarians who may think there is something a little "off" in certain sections of this story, I apologize in advance. I happen to be one of you . . . but I decided to try a method suggested in a book I've been reading on the subject of fiction writing, and my betas agreed that the result was more readable than the strictly grammatical version. Thanks to Mary, Julie, Fling, Jobsies and Pam for input at various stages. All remaining errors are my own.

Author's note 3: Unless I made an extremely lucky guess, there has never been a High Frontier Research and Development Facility. However, High Frontier was the name of the organization, under the leadership of General Dan Graham, which promoted the Army's HTK technology in the early 1980s. I wasn't able to locate the name of the actual research facility.

--SMK--SMK-SMK-SMK-SMK-

PROLOGUE

Streaks of pink and orange softened the dreary expanse of predawn sky. The pale gray of impending sunrise created a stark contrast to the inky forms on the ground: a cluster of squat, colorless buildings huddled behind a towering, barbed-wire fence and massive iron gate. A sparse layer of low-lying fog partially obscured the muted landscape, the beam of a huge spotlight casting ominous shadows as it cut through the misty gloom. An eerie quiet was broken only by the muffled stomp of booted feet as two sets of uniformed guards crossed paths on yet another circuit of the top-secret military facility.

Always alert for signs of trouble, the four guards turned to watch as a small group of men emerged from the closest building. The newcomers staggered under the weight of large, steel barrels which they dumped, one by one, into the receptacle of a waiting trash truck. Two of the men brushed dust from their chilled hands and mounted into the passenger compartment of the vehicle, while the rest scurried back toward the relative warmth of their laboratory.

The mechanical groan of a large engine replaced the former stillness, and the brightness of two headlights joined the searchlight's efforts to banish the lingering vestiges of night. The hulking vehicle lurched and crept ponderously forward. After a cursory stop at the gate, where it was waved through by a yawning sentry, it moved out of the compound and slowly built up speed. 

It was soon was swallowed by the early morning traffic, blending easily with the delivery vans, garbage trucks and tractor-trailers that constituted the majority of the denizens of the road at such a dismal hour.

By the time the low wail of sirens pierced the solemn silence of the High Frontier Research and Development Facility, its trail had disappeared.

CHAPTER 1

Late morning sunshine permeated Amanda King's cheery kitchen, gleaming on the spotless counters and polished floor. Hand-sewn gingham curtains, bordering the room's open windows, billowed gently in a soft breeze flowing from the freshly mowed yard.

The lively homemaker picked up two brightly colored hot pads and carefully lifted the lid from a large copper pot. A plume of aromatic steam rose from the vessel and quickly dissipated in the cool autumn air. Smiling down at the simmering contents, Amanda inhaled deeply. There was nothing quite like the scent of homemade chicken soup. One whiff was enough to warm her to her toes and make her mouth water in anticipation. 

After swirling a wooden spoon through the thick concoction, revealing the chunks of meat, pasta and vegetables hidden beneath the bubbling golden broth, she lifted a tiny sample to her lips. Perfect. Soup from a can could never compete.

As she adjusted the heat control and replaced the lid, her mother bustled into the kitchen, clad in worn slacks and an oversized shirt. A broad-brimmed hat was perched on her silver blonde head, held snugly in place by a wide ribbon tied under one ear. However, despite being dressed for one of her favorite leisure activities, Dotty West's expression was anything but happy. Her eyes were brooding, and her lips compressed in a dissatisfied frown.

"I thought you were playing Bridge today," Amanda said, setting the spoon on a ceramic holder and picking up a dishtowel to swipe the short trail of broth she had dribbled across the stove.

"I was supposed to, but Muriel has a bad cold, and I can't practice without her." Stopping beside the back door, Dotty began to pull on a pair of thick cotton gloves. "I'm going to take out my frustration on those climbing roses around the trellis. I am determined," she added, putting sharp emphasis on each word, "to have properly trained roses next spring, so I need to get them pruned and tied before the first frost." She paused to select a pair of wicked-looking shears from her basket of gardening supplies, vigorously squeezing them open and closed several times as though already tackling the recalcitrant stems. Then she gave a soft huff of discontent. "Not that tending roses will help my Bridge game. If Muriel's not well enough to play by Saturday, we'll have to drop out of the tournament."

Reaching to one of the dark-toned cabinets, Amanda pulled out four leaf-patterned ironstone bowls. "Maybe you should find another partner."

Dotty wagged an admonishing finger in her direction. "You wouldn't say that if you had more experience in working closely with one person. Changing partners isn't as easy as it sounds. Partners get used to working together; they know each other's habits . . . each other's strengths and weaknesses." She smiled reminiscently, her eyes softening in the way they always did when she spoke of Amanda's father. "I remember Bridge nights with your daddy. We could practically read each other's minds, and we always--"

"Bickered over every missed trump the next morning," interjected Amanda, pursing her lips to stifle a chuckle, as she set the bowls on the counter and pulled open the silverware drawer. She knew her mother's innate high-spirits disguised a keen sense of loss.

Dotty's smile turned wistful. "Of course, dear. How else could we have learned to understand each other so well?" A longing sigh escaped her before she turned her mind to her more immediate dilemma. "Muriel and I won't ever have the psychic connection I had with your daddy, but we've been playing together for months. I couldn't adjust to a new partner by Saturday."

The clatter of soup spoons was muffled by a stack of napkins, and Amanda turned to check the pan of biscuits cooling on the counter. The crusty tops were warm under her probing fingers, and a faint, yeasty sweetness filled her nostrils. "Well, I'm sure if it's just a cold, she'll be felling better by the weekend." 

"You know, dear, Muriel lives alone, and someone really should drop by her apartment to see if she's all right," Dotty said, her eyes drifting from the plump biscuits to the simmering soup. "Poor thing, she's probably surviving on canned soup and stale crackers."

Amanda grinned at the mother's less-than-subtle tactics. "Would you like me to stop by her place this afternoon? I can take her a nice container of homemade soup."

Dotty gave her a complacent smile. "Would you, dear? The drug stores are full of cold remedies: decongestants and antihistamines and cough suppressants. For my money, though, there's nothing like a bowl of homemade chicken soup to conquer a cold." Shooting her daughter an exaggeratedly contrite look, she added, "If it isn't too much trouble."

"It won't be any trouble at all," Amanda said with as much cheerfulness as she could muster. Mentally adding a mission of mercy to her already busy afternoon schedule, she said a silent prayer that the ill woman wouldn't be in a talkative mood. "I'm going into Georgetown to distribute some resumes. Muriel's apartment is only a few blocks from Edison Publishing, so I'll deliver her soup first, while it's still hot, and then I can make my other stops."

"I still don't understand why you didn't get that job at Hunneycutt Typewriter," said Dotty, her brow wrinkling in displeasure. "There simply couldn't be many applicants with your qualifications. You type . . . you take shorthand . . . you get along with everyone. Someone from Hunneycutt even called here to follow up after your interview." Dotty's puzzled frown transformed into a mild grimace as several thuds and a youthful shout resonated from somewhere over their heads. "Do you think it was held against you that you have children?"

"Now that you mention it, Mother," Amanda said, turning away to hide the flush she felt rising on her cheeks at the reminder of the disruption a certain good-looking federal agent had caused in the office of her prospective employer, "children did come up in the interview." 

Dotty put one hand on her hip, her voice rising and the garden shears waving like the weapon of a primeval warrior. "Well, that's just not right. 'Mother' is the most challenging job in the world. Being a mother should count as a qualification for any demanding career; it shouldn't be held against you." Pausing for effect, the razor point of the shears hovering dangerously close to the delicate kitchen curtains, she switched to a lecturing tone. "You've been the victim of unfair discrimination, Amanda, and there are laws now against that sort of thing. I may just call Hunneycutt's personnel manager and give him a piece of my mind." 

"Mo-ther." Amanda drew the word out in a long sigh but repressed the urge to remind her zealous parent that she was old enough to fight her own battles. And choose her own battles. "You should save your energy for Bridge and roses; I wasn't interested in the position Warren Davenport was trying to fill." 

She repressed a shudder at the memory of the weasely little man's open appreciation for certain qualifications not listed on her job application. As anxious as she was to find work, she might have been relieved by Lee Stetson's unintentional rescue mission if his tactics hadn't been so preposterous. Timmy, Tommy and Tammy, indeed! She could have dreamed up something more believable than THAT, and she'd never even been to spy school. 

Engrossed in her wandering thoughts, Amanda was startled by the arrival of her younger son, who dashed into the kitchen and skidded to a halt at her side.

"Wow, Grandma," said Jamie, staring past his mother toward his grandmother's more diminutive form, "gnarly scissors! Can I use them for my--"

"NO!" the two women said in unison. 

Noticing that the young boy's eyes remained focused on the sharp, steel blades, Amanda cupped his chin and turned his head until she was peering sternly into his eyes. "You are NOT to borrow your grandmother's garden shears," she said, enunciating each word slowly and clearly. She paused to allow her admonition to sink in and then added, "and you are NOT to ask your brother to borrow them for you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, mom," was the subdued reply. His gaze flickered back toward his grandmother before he shrugged in resignation. Then he perked up, as though just remembering the purpose for his sojourn to the kitchen. Bouncing slightly on the toes of his battered sneakers, he reminded his mother of the mechanical contraption he'd been tinkering with for the past several days. "Mom, are you gonna get the batteries for my science project today? You promised." 

Amanda bit her lip to suppress a sigh of frustration. She had promised, and she'd forgotten. "Of course I am, sweetheart," she said, leaning down to brush a fleeting kiss across his forehead and making a mental note that he needed both new shoes and a haircut. "I'm going into Georgetown to deliver hot soup to Grandma's friend, Muriel. Handy Hardware is just a couple of blocks from Muriel's apartment. How many batteries did you say you need?"

"Four," Jamie said. "Nine volts."

"Those are the little rectangular ones, right?" Her thumb and index finger demonstrated the approximate length of a nine volt battery.

"Yeah," he answered, sniffing the air and turning his head from side to side. "Is lunch almost ready? I'm starving."

Amanda smiled wryly; at the rate he was shooting up, he'd need new jeans soon, too. "You're always starving."

Jamie brushed his hair out of his eyes with one hand and rubbed his thin torso with the other. "I eat lunch at 11:30 on school days. My stomach doesn't know the teachers have a serving day."

"An in service day, sweetheart," Amanda said, tousling his hair and giving him a gentle shove back toward the hallway. "All right. Go upstairs and tell your brother to come down." She listened to him pound his way up the stairs and then put her hands at the sides of her mouth to holler, "and don't forget to wash your hands!"

She turned to see her mother pat down her hat, pick up her basket and open the back door. "I'll eat in a little while, dear. I want to spend a few minutes with those roses before you leave," said Dotty as she slipped outside, leaving Amanda to spoon soup into bowls as she plotted her afternoon route for the third time.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

"Damn!" 

Lee Stetson stood just inside the rear door of a Metro Electric panel truck, his golden brown hair brushing the ceiling despite his hunched stance. With his hands balled into fists, he resembled a prizefighter as he glowered at the flustered young agent who had risen to deliver the bad news. 

If he had only arrived thirty minutes earlier . . . 

"Sorry, Scarecrow." Frank Duffy slipped a pair of headphones off his ears, allowing them to slide down until they dangled around his neck. Pulling himself stiffly to his feet, he stretched his cramped arms and shoulders as much as the small, cluttered interior of the truck allowed. "We're set up for site surveillance. We weren't told to have a tail ready until after 5 o'clock."

Struggling to rein in his temper, Lee swallowed the impulse to snap out a snide reply. He shouldn't have to remind his fellow operatives of the need to think on their feet and adjust to changing circumstances. On the other hand, chided the voice of reason, there was no point in blaming Grayson and Duffy; they had only been following orders. His orders . . . he was in charge of this investigation.

Running an agitated hand through his hair, he gave himself a mental shake. "It's not your fault, Frank, Tony. The message we intercepted instructed the courier to go straight from the airport to his designated contact point and sit tight until the meet tonight. No one expected him to break orders." He offered the other two men a wry smile. "The KGB frowns on that."

"Just our luck to get a maverick," Duffy said, his lips twisting in a dour expression that might have been an answering grin.

"Maybe he went out to lunch," suggested Grayson. The rookie had edged away, pressing his lanky frame against the opposite side of the truck, as far as possible from the frustrated senior agent. From his new vantage point, he looked from Frank to Lee, his boyish face hopeful. 

Lee shook his head. "No. These places are always stocked with the basics. Even a low-level courier knows better than to risk a permanent assignment to Siberia for an American chili dog. Something's gone wrong." He closed his eyes for a moment, absently rubbing his left temple as he tried to decide on another course of action, now that their only lead had evaporated. He couldn't think of one. "Let's take it from the top. Maybe there's a clue you guys missed."

Duffy sank back down on the narrow leather seat. Reaching to a small shelf, he retrieved a spiral notebook. "Grayson and I came on duty at nine o'clock. Russert and Collins hadn't seen anything," he added, in reference to the two agents on the previous shift. 

Lee nodded. Needing to move, but unable to take more than half a step without colliding with electronic equipment or human bodies, he settled for shoving his hands into his pockets and flexing his long fingers. "He probably came in on a late morning flight; that's one of the busiest times at Dulles, so he had the best chance of slipping past our security teams unnoticed." 

Frank flipped open the notebook and ran a finger across the page. "Everything was quiet until 11:40. Then a cab pulled up, and this guy got out." He punched several buttons and a grainy picture appeared on one of the monitors. "We only got his profile." 

Lee studied the frozen image, making a mental note to order a couple of still shots. There was always a possibility that Ernie would be able to identify him. If not, the Agency might have to resort to canvassing Dulles for days with only these indistinct surveillance photos. "What about the cab?" 

Grayson took a tentative step forward, rubbing his hands together and shifting his weight nervously. "Danielson snagged it. He called in a few minutes ago. The driver checked out. This guy," he nodded toward the screen, "came straight here from the airport -- no stops, no contacts."

Repressing a sigh, Lee turned back to Duffy. "What did he do after he got out of the cab?"

"He went straight inside. He took the stairs instead of the elevator. It was clean -- we'd just swept it thirty minutes earlier. No one else was in the stairwell or the hallway. The apartment door opened and closed at," he paused to glance down at his notes, "11:44. He wasn't there very long --"

"There were no phone calls . . . no radio signals . . . no visitors?"

The air in the truck was stuffy and overheated, the temperature climbing with the midday sun. Duffy ran a handkerchief across his damp brow. "Not even a carrier pigeon. We picked up a few footsteps, but he didn't say a word, pick up the phone or go near a window. 

"This doesn't make any sense," Lee growled. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead, and he shook his damp hair out of this eyes. "Why would he leave if he wasn't contacted?"

"No idea. He opened the door again at . . ." Duffy again consulted his paperwork. "11:56. He took the elevator back down. It was clean, too, and he was the only passenger. He came out the front door and stood at the bottom of the steps for a few seconds." The older man turned his head and gestured toward a red brick building barely visible through the truck's shaded windshield. "I had binoculars on him, and I don't think he got any kind of signal. Then he headed north." He turned back to Lee and shrugged. "The sidewalk was pretty crowded; we lost sight of him before he got very far."

"Damn." Lee repeated his previous invective, glancing at the console's digital clock. The numbers "12:23" flashed at him in bright red. "Even if we brought a full team in, there's no way they could pick up the trail now. It's a total bust," he added, extracting his hands from his pockets. Curling the fingers of his left hand into a fist again, he smacked it into his right one. 

"No, it's not!" The younger agent's voice was suffused with excitement as he pointed toward the middle of the surveillance team's three monitors. "He's coming back!"

Lee pivoted, planting both hands on the edge of Grayson's vacated seat as he peered at the tiny screen. Although Georgetown was teeming with the usual lunchtime crush of cars and pedestrians, it took only a split second to spot the Russian agent. The man was short and thin, clad in a drab and ill-fitting gray coat. A shabby hat of the same dull shade was pulled low across his brow, leaving only a rim of short, dark hair and his clean-shaven chin clearly visible. His shoulders were bowed, as though he were trying to make himself even smaller and more nondescript. With his head down and his hands stuffed into his pockets, he walked briskly toward the front steps of the Genessee Arms Apartments. 

The three men watched in silence as their quarry started to ascend toward the glass doors of the building. To Lee's surprise, his steady pace faltered as he reached the third step. He resumed the short climb only to stop again, this time crumpling slowly to his knees and then falling backward, almost in slow motion, to the the sidewalk. 

Lee jerked open the door of the surveillance van and leapt to the pavement. With only a cursory glance at traffic, he sprinted across the busy street, darting between the slow-moving vehicles. By the time he reached the opposite curb, a group of people had converged on the fallen man. Their indistinct murmuring resembled the buzz of a swarm of bees.

Muscling his way through the excited crowd, Lee quickly reached the center of the human mass. Only one person had actually rushed to the man's aid; the rest were gawking from a safer distance. 

The woman who knelt beside the Russian agent had her back to Lee. Although he could see little except her tan coat and chestnut hair, there was something vaguely familiar about the slender figure. 

Two long strides brought him to the woman's side. Pushing aside her bags with one foot, he reached down to grasp her elbow and pull her, none too gently, to her feet. 

As she turned to face him, he felt a stab of annoyed recognition at the same moment that he felt something warm and damp oozing between his toes. 

"What are you doing here?" he shouted, the frustration of the past few minutes finally boiling over.

"What do you think you're doing?" Amanda King said almost simultaneously. Her voice was shrill, and her brown eyes glared indignantly into his hazel ones. "That man needs help! And . . . oh my gosh . . . ." Her words trailed off as she stared down at Lee's feet. The cuffs of his tailored trousers had been liberally splashed with some nameless gunk, and his imported leather shoes were immersed in a pungent brown puddle. "Look what you did to my soup!"


	3. Chapter 3

  
CHAPTER 3

Amanda perched on the edge of a leather armchair, facing the serious dark eyes of William Melrose. Behind her, she could hear a faint rustle of fabric and rhythmic, slightly squishy, footsteps. Long strides navigated a tight circuit along the paneled wall, pausing periodically at the blind-shaded window before resuming their endless cycle. Even with her back to him, she could feel the restless energy radiating from the agitated intelligence operative. How did Mr. Melrose put up with these high-strung antics on a daily basis? She'd been sitting in the Field Section chief's office for less than an thirty minutes, and Lee Stetson was driving her crazy! 

As though reading her thoughts, the older man's gaze drifted over her shoulder, and he shot a look of mingled reproach and appeal at the pacing agent. "Sit down, Scarecrow. You're wearing a path in the carpet."

Amanda refused to glance in Lee's direction as his movements slowed. After a moment, she heard the soft creak of well-worn upholstery as he dropped into the chair to her right, muttering an incoherent sound somewhere between a grunt and a growl. Still miffed by his earlier, totally overbearing, treatment, she folded her hands in her lap and stared straight ahead. Gritting her teeth, she determined to ignore his childish display of pique. 

What right did he have to be angry? She was the one who should be furious! She had been on a public sidewalk, minding her own business, when a perfect stranger had fallen at her feet. Did she step around him and continue on her way? Did she join the useless throng of gaping spectators? No! She tried to do the right thing; she stopped to help. 

And what was the reward for her selfless conduct? 

Lee Stetson kicked over her shopping bag, spilling her soup and turning her carefully typed resumes into a sodden, unsalvageable mess. He berated her for being in the way when she tried to apply her first-aid skills to the stricken man ---and then rebuked her for not assisting him when she attempted to edge away from the hectic scene. He practically dragged her, without so much as a "please," off the street and into the secretive, underground world of the Agency. Then, as soon as they arrived in the glass-enclosed bullpen, he began, inexplicably, to rant that she shouldn't be involved in Agency business. Finally, after losing a ridiculous argument with Mr. Melrose over her unwanted presence in a place to which he had brought her, he retreated into a bad-tempered pout. 

That was over an hour ago. A flurry of frenzied activity followed, during which she was elbowed and jostled and finally shuffled aside as though she were an inconveniently placed plant stand.

At Mr. Melrose's brisk "Listen up, people!" the calm buzzing of the Agency Field Section fell silent before erupting into organized chaos. From her vantage point, squeezed against a wall between a file cabinet and an unoccupied desk, she watched Mr. Melrose bark out instructions. Half a dozen agents snapped to attention, listening to the clipped, terse orders with intense expressions and furrowed brows. Some then rushed to their phones or computer terminals. Others hurried through the bullpen doors and past the military guard, disappearing down the wide hallway. 

Apparently satisfied with the activities he had set in motion, Mr. Melrose vanished into his inner sanctum. Lee followed with dragging feet, drooping shoulders and a deep scowl. Neither so much as glanced in her direction.

Uncertain what was expected of her, as she was neither given a specific assignment nor escorted back to the Georgetown foyer, Amanda pulled out an empty chair and waited. No one paid the slightest heed to the disgruntled civilian as she witnessed, firsthand, the inner-workings of the top secret government organization. 

Minute after minute ticked slowly by. She was on the point of knocking on the closed door and asking permission to go home when Mr. Melrose finally reappeared. He ushered her, politely but firmly, into his office and peppered her with increasingly pointless questions. How was she expected to know the name of Muriel Cannelli's primary physician . . . and how could national security possibly be impacted by the ingredients in her chicken soup recipe? It didn't escaped her notice, during this baffling and irritating interrogation, that all of her own, perfectly reasonable, inquiries were either sidestepped or ignored. 

Inquiries such as . . . what happened to the sick man? 

As if in answer to her unspoken query, there was a light, cursory knock on the office door. Before Mr. Melrose had a chance to respond, It swung open to admit Francine Desmond. The blonde agent managed to project both brisk efficiency and opulent elegance. Although burdened with a stack of files and a roll of what appeared to be blueprint paper, she moved as though she were a fashion model, gliding down a Paris runway. Her tailored suit, deep cerulean blue shot with silver threads, had the style and detail of a designer original, and only practice and determination could allow her to balance with such fluid grace on the matching spiked heels. 

Amanda ran her fingers down the front of her homemade pink skirt, trying to smooth the wrinkles and straighten the neatly set pleats. Glancing briefly down at her scuffed, beige shoes, she scooted her feet further under the chair. Her natural self-confidence rallied quickly, however, and she sat up straighter, squaring her shoulders. Her brief admiration for Ms. Desmond had already withered under the icy disdain in those clear, blue eyes. She wasn't going to allow herself to be intimidated by the material trappings of a professional snob.

She fidgeted silently as the section chief perused the files Francine had deposited on his desk. The man to her right didn't have nearly her restraint. 

"Well?" Lee blurted the question as Mr. Melrose slapped the last folder closed.

"It'll take a few weeks for the pathologist to receive the results of the toxicology studies, but he's issued his preliminary findings. The cause of death appears to be a massive abdominal aneurysm."

Amanda gasped involuntarily as Mr. Melrose gave the matter-of-fact report. "You mean that poor man is dead?"

Lee pivoted toward her, half rising from his chair as his voice amplified almost to a shout. "That POOR man was a Russian agent. He was also our only link to the HTK interceptor technology stolen last week from --" Biting off his outburst, he sank back onto the worn leather, raking one hand through his hair.

Before Amanda could decide between the half dozen questions swirling in her mind, Mr. Melrose turned a calm glare at his top agent. "Don't take your frustration out on Mrs. King, Lee. She had nothing to do with this; she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time." 

"Excuse me, Billy, but now that we know for certain that she wasn't responsible for the courier's collapse --" Francine cut in, arching a sculpted brow as she directed a smile of pedantic hauteur over Amanda's right shoulder. "Not that I truly suspected you, dear. Imagining you taking out a Russian courier would be like . . ." She paused to give a practiced toss of her tastefully coifed head, ". . . expecting to find 'Coq Au Vin with Truffles' on the menu of the local Quickie Chickie Snack Shack."

Mr. Melrose rolled his eyes. He apparently was accustomed to his assistant's acerbic manner and sharp tongue. "Get to the point, Francine."

"I just meant to say that we've wasted enough of Mrs. King's valuable time," Francine said with a patronizing shrug. "She probably has a dozen little housewifey things to do . . . cleaning windows, waxing floors, starching shirts . . . ."

Amanda bristled at the blatant condescension. Although, five minutes earlier, she had been mentally bemoaning the number of unfinished errands on her day's to-do-list, she was assailed by a stubborn determination to sit here until she found out what was going on. Maybe she could even help. She'd get a thank-you from Lee Stetson for her contributions to the Agency if it was the last thing she ever did!

"Actually, Francine," said Mr. Melrose, folding his hands on his desktop as he leaned slightly toward Amanda, "I was thinking that Mrs. King might be able to help us."

"Bil - ly." Lee drew out the word in protest before lapsing again into silence.

"Now, look here, you two." Mr. Melrose cast a stern look at his two operatives. "This case is alpha priority, and I have every agent I can spare on it. But we simply don't have the manpower to blanket the entire D.C. area, looking for a meet that could happen any time in the next ten hours, between two or more parties unknown." He stopped to allow his words to sink in before continuing. "We still don't have a positive ID on our courier, and Mrs. King did see the man. If she can sift through the photo archive, I won't have to put Duffy or Grayson or --" his steady gaze locked on Lee, "you on it, Scarecrow."

Peeking sideways at the derisive expression on Francine's face and the appalled one on Lee's, Amanda allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. "What would you like me to do, sir?"

"Look through some photos of known Soviet operatives and see whether we can come up with a name to match this face." Mr. Melrose selected a photograph from one of the folders and held it up by one corner. The picture had clearly been taken just before the dead man's autopsy. Only dark hair and a still face were visible, rimmed above and below by white sheets. The features were slightly bloated, the skin tone mottled gray, the eyes closed. 

Amanda repressed a shudder as she gingerly accepted the photo; she'd never seen a close-up of a corpse. "Sir . . . what good will it do to identify him? You said he's dead."

Francine's lips curled in a supercilious smirk, and she opened her mouth only to be headed off with another warning from her boss.

"Can it, Francine. Mrs. King asked a perfectly logical question." Billy stretched to pick up a coffee mug from the corner of his desk. After frowning down at the murky contents, he wrinkled his nose in distaste and set it back in its original position. "It might not do any good . . . but the Russian government is a lot like ours in some ways. There are several different agencies which could be involved in any covert operation. If we can identify the man who died this afternoon and can place him in a particular department, we'll be able to narrow the list of other couriers who might be working on this acquisition."

Neither of the two agents appeared to be satisfied, but before they could raise further objections, Mr. Melrose's gaze drifted toward the clock, and he put up one hand, palm outward, in the universal gesture for "stop." Shooting another warning glance at Lee and Francine, he spoke with quiet authority. "Ernie's doing live airport surveillance; we've set up a print photo library in conference room two. Scarecrow will get you started, Mrs. King, and he'll answer any questions you may have." Rising in an unmistakable signal of dismissal, he slipped a rumpled jacket from the back of his chair and started around his desk. Pausing mid-stride, he stepped back and took a half-empty bottle of Tums from his desktop, dropping it into his pocket. "If anyone needs me, I'll be downstairs, briefing the top brass on our progress."

"Or lack of progress," Lee muttered morosely as the door slammed closed behind his section chief.


	4. Chapter 4

  
CHAPTER 4

The conference room door swung silently open. Lee nudged Amanda past the threshold, taking her arm to guide her to one of the padded chairs at the head of the long conference room table. Leaning across her slender form, he pulled a stack of thick, three-ring binders into an accessible position and flipped the cover of the top one. 

Deep-set, dark eyes stared emptily from a glossy black and white photograph. With his close-cropped, salt and pepper hair, coarse features and nondescript gray suit, the man in the picture could have melted invisibly into any large crowd. Under the unsmiling visage, a two paragraph dossier summarized his known affiliations, specialties and habits. 

"These are the most likely suspects," Lee said, settling his left hand on the back of Amanda's chair as he waved his right one over the binders. "Midlevel operatives, experienced couriers, a few semiretired diplomats who're familiar with the D.C area. If you don't find our guy --" Lee dropped the dead man's autopsy photo, paper-clipped to the outside of a thin manilla folder, onto the tabletop, "we'll move on to the less likely prospects." His eyes drifted to a portable bookcase which had been wheeled into the room and parked along the wall. Its three shelves were jammed with identical binders.

After staring at the laden shelves, Amanda shifted slightly and turned to look up at him, her loose, shoulder-length curls brushing the exposed wrist below his rolled up sleeve. The dark tendrils were silky and fragrant, like a field of wildflowers in springtime, and the tiny hairs on his arm straightened as though he had experienced a mild, electric shock. Unaccountably flustered by the innocent contact, he withdrew his hand and tried to beat a hasty retreat.

"You get started," he said, stepping backward and shoving the tingling appendage into his trouser pocket, "and I'll check on you later, if I'm not following another lead. If you do find a match, just pick up that phone --" he gestured toward a beige box on the wall close to the door, "-- and dial 888. Francine should be at her desk for the rest of the afternoon."

He had almost reached the doorway when a rhythmic tapping stopped him in his tracks. Not the sharp rap of tapering, manicured nails, he noted irrelevantly, but the soft thump of impatient fingertips. 

Trying to project an image of command and professionalism, he turned an imperious stare at her and raised a sardonic brow. "Yes?"

She swiveled her chair to face him, and he lowered his eyes to avoid her disgruntled frown. His attention lingered for a moment on the shapely legs extending from beneath her pink skirt before he jerked his gaze back upward.

If she noticed his brief lapses, she didn't show it. Her brown eyes were narrowed with a stubborn determination he was fast coming to recognize. "Mr. Melrose said you'd answer my questions."

He sighed, rubbing his right hand across tight muscles in the back of his neck. "A-man-da. This is a simple assignment. You sit here; you look through the photos; you tell Francine if you find the guy. What else could you possibly need to know?"

She folded her arms across her chest and fixed him with an indignant glare. "I've spent the last two hours in the Agency, doing my best to help you," she said, a hint of steel beneath the even tone. "I haven't complained about the time I've wasted. I haven't complained about the resumes you ruined. I haven't complained about my soup. I've answered all of your questions and all of Mr. Melrose's questions. I think I have a right to know what's going on."

A flash of annoyance coursed through him. His case was in shambles, and he had only a few hours to pick up the pieces and fit them back together. He didn't have time to deal with a troublesome, inquisitive civilian. On the other hand, it would probably be faster to answer her questions than to listen to her rambling, and not entirely unjustified, griping. He sighed, pulling out another chair and slumping into it. "All right. What do you want to ask?"

She looked surprised by his sudden capitulation, and he felt a stab of guilt. He hadn't intended to be as dictatorial and ungrateful as she obviously considered him.

Reaching for the photo of the dead man, she studied it intently for several moments. Curiosity and compassion mingled in her serious brown gaze. "Why is he so important?" she finally asked.

Lee closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger as he began a grudging explanation. "Four days ago, there was a major security breach at one of the Army's top satellite research centers. Two men hijacked a waste management truck and infiltrated the facility. They drove off with the latest plans for the Army's HTK system."

Amanda's nose wrinkled, faint lines of concentration furrowing her brow. "HTK?"

"Hit to kill. It's one of the most promising technologies in the President's proposed multilayer antimissile defense shield."

Her eyes opened wide, the long lashes a dark patina against her creamy skin. "Star Wars?"

He couldn't help grinning at her rapt absorption in a technology so far removed from her day-to-day reality. "HTK is expected be our first line of defense in a Soviet missile strike. HTKs are sometimes called "smart rocks," because they don't have an explosive warhead. They use a heat-seeking device to zero in on a Soviet missile during the boost phase, when it's emitting a huge amount of infrared energy, and ram it." 

Lee picked up a pencil and held it, pointing up at a slight angle, its eraser resting lightly on the smooth, wooden surface of the table. "Say this is a Soviet surface-to-surface missile, and it's aimed at D.C.." Picking up another pencil, he held it in the air, pointed toward the first one. "This," he said, nodding toward the second pencil, "is the smart rock. It's based in low Earth orbit where it's hard to target with anti satellite weapons."

"So it's just sitting up there, waiting?"

"Right. Now, when the Soviet missile fires --" Lee started moving the first pencil slowly away from the table. "The smart rock detects the infrared energy from the booster rockets and . . . BAM!" The second pencil swooped swiftly downward, colliding with the first one; both clattered to the tabletop. "From our intelligence reports, this is the part of the Star Wars technology that really worries the Soviets, because it basically explodes their missiles in their own backyard. If the stolen plans fall into the wrong hands, the Soviets will be able to work out evasive procedures before we have the first HTK ready to launch. Our defense shield's gonna be set back years."

Skepticism clouded Amanda's brown eyes. "How can the shield be set back that far? The President just proposed the Star Wars defense last March."

"True, but the Army's been tinkering with the HTK concept since the mid-70's. With the new funding they expect in January, they hoped to be ready for preliminary testing by next Spring." 

She nodded in understanding, her gaze returning to the dead man's photo. "Was he one of the men who stole the plans?"

Lee shook his head; the movement exacerbated the dull headache that had been threatening all afternoon. "No . . . we don't think the Soviets were directly involved in the theft, but they're usually first in line to take advantage of any satellite technology that comes onto the market. We have a few leads on the thieves, but nothing concrete. We've also put out feelers through all of our known brokers, and we haven't gotten a single nibble."

"How do you know this man was going to buy them?" 

"The day before yesterday, we intercepted a message. It was incomplete, but we picked up the words "smart rock," today's date, and enough of the time to know an exchange is set up for sometime tonight. It also gave the address of the apartment building where you --" he gave a lopsided smile, "-- met the courier and instructions to stay put and await orders. This guy showed up at the apartment, so he must have been the recipient of the message."

"The apartment building wasn't where he was supposed to buy the missile plans?"

"No; the apartment was set up as a safe house -- somewhere for the courier to lie low and wait for further instructions. The Soviets have several of these places, sprinkled through the D.C. area. They're stocked with whatever their guy will need for a short stay."

"How do you know he was the Soviet courier? Maybe he was just visiting someone in the building."

"No; he went to the apartment, left briefly, and was on his way back when he collapsed." 

"I thought you said he was ordered to stay put?"

Lee raked his fingers through his hair. "That's the puzzling part. He left for almost thirty minutes, against orders." Lee stopped to mull, yet again, that contradiction. "They never vary their routines; they never break orders," he muttered, more to himself than to her.

"Mr. Melrose said, if I can identify the dead man, you might be able to identify other possible couriers. But, even if the Russians find out he's dead, how can they get someone here in time to take his place?"

"Usually, for an acquisition this big, the Soviets have more than one possible courier. If one of their guys gets tripped up in airport security, he turns around and goes home; if one of them thinks he's being tailed, he goes on evasive maneuvers and keeps us busy. Odds are, at least one of their guys will make it to the meet. That's why we want a list of known associates. There's another courier out there . . . probably more than one. We may not find them before the sale goes through, but if we can come up with a few likelys, our guys on airport surveillance have a much better chance of keeping the HTK plans from getting out of the country. Now," Lee said, pulling himself to his feet and moving again toward the doorway, "I have work to do. Just do your best, okay? It could be important."

Her curiosity apparently satisfied, Amanda swiveled away from him. As she did so, the autopsy folder bumped the edge of the table and was jarred from her grasp. The attached photograph and several other documents slipped from the folder and fluttered toward the floor. "Oh," she gasped, her left hand flying to her mouth.

Lee leapt instinctively, grabbing for the tumbling papers. At the same instant, Amanda sprang to her feet. He might have considered her movements graceful had he anticipated them -- and had his usually suave self-image not been stinging from his unexplainable reaction to their earlier contact -- but he chastised her awkwardness, under his breath, when she collided with his chest. Shaking his head and glowering, he set both hands on her shoulders and pushed her firmly back into the chair. Then he knelt to gather the fallen paperwork. 

She flushed, her teeth pulling at her lower lip as her fingers ironed the crumpled papers he had pressed into her hands. "I'll put everything back in order. I just need to figure out what order they're supposed to be in. What's this one?" When she held the top sheet toward him, it quivered in her grasp.

He caught her wrist in a loose grip and quickly released it. "It's just an inventory of the dead guy's personal effects: cufflinks, a ball point pen, cash, an airline ticket, a visa, and diplomatic papers . . . all in perfect order under a false name. None of this stuff is gonna help with identification."

"Three twenty dollar bills, a ten, a five, and sixty-three cents." Amanda read through the list as she straightened the pile on her lap. "It doesn't look like he was carrying enough money to buy missile plans."

"In a sale this big, the funds are transferred electronically. A courier only needs enough cash to look like a tourist and maybe handle a few incidentals, like cab fare. This one," he flicked the photo, "was a big spender. He gave the cabbie a twenty." 

Amanda frowned as she ran a finger across the page. "Where'd he get the change?"

Lee shrugged as he finally made good his exit. "I have no idea. Maybe Grayson was right . . . maybe he went out for lunch."


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

Amanda pulled the station wagon into its usual spot on the leaf-shaded driveway and pushed the gear shift into "park." After switching off the ignition, she leaned back in her seat, enjoying a rare interval of relaxation. 

The Virginia landscape had begun its annual metamorphosis, the luxuriant foliage of summer replaced by the vivid red and gold of autumn. The houses and yards of her neighborhood, bathed in the aureate glow of late afternoon sunshine, resonated with the sounds of normalcy: the chirp of songbirds as they prepared for their southern journeys, the bark of dogs as they greeted returning members of their families, the laughter of children as they enjoyed a final few minutes of play before dinner. From the house next door, little Bobby Kenwood's piano lesson provided musical accompaniment, the harmony interrupted now and then by a jarringly off-key note, and somewhere in the distance the low rumble of a lawnmower attested to the industry of at least one of her neighbors. Yet the atmosphere of the suburbs seemed soothing and peaceful after her afternoon at the Agency. 

It had been an extraordinary day. Well, perhaps not extraordinary, she corrected herself. Flying a helicopter . . . being held at gunpoint in the upper offices of Connie Beth Cosmetic headquarters . . . those things were extraordinary. In contrast, having a Russian spy fall dead at her feet and spending the afternoon looking at photographs of counterintelligence agents seemed almost tame. Still, compared to days spent doing nothing more exciting than helping her sons practice spelling, there was a certain intrigue to helping protect her country from foreign powers. 

Today, she had done something that might really make a difference in the world. It had taken her nearly two hours, but she made a positive identification of the deceased Russian. He was Dominic Gregornoff, a midlevel operative with the KGB who once spent six months in D.C. as a diplomatic attaché. Thankfully, his file contained enough information on his recent activities to put together a list of other couriers who might be involved in the HTK acquisition.

Even her job search wasn't a total loss. After she dumped her tattered, stained shopping bag and soggy resumes into a waste basket in the Field Section bullpen, Mr. Melrose gave her a sheaf of fresh typing paper and the promise of part-time transcription work for the Agency until she could find more permanent employment. 

Mr. Melrose also thanked her graciously for her contribution before asking Ms. Desmond to escort her to the Georgetown foyer. The blonde agent wasn't nearly as appreciative; she stood in tightlipped silence during the short elevator ride, finally giving Amanda frigid half-smile before leaving her at the desk of the equally forbidding receptionist. She didn't set eyes on Lee Stetson after he left her in the Agency conference room.

After leaving IFF, Amanda visited a Georgetown deli, arranging the delivery of hot soup and rolls to Muriel Cannelli. Then she made a hurried stop at Handy Hardware before returning to Arlington.

Scooping up the small, brown bag containing the batteries for Jamie's science project, she dropped it into her purse before exiting the vehicle and taking the short walkway to the back door. 

"Mother," she called as she stepped into the kitchen. "I'm home."

"Amanda!" Dotty's voice, carrying from the family room, held a distinct edge of reproach. "Is that you? Where in the world have you been? You've been gone for hours, and when I called Muriel, she said you never showed up with her soup. She said there was total mayhem outside her building this afternoon: there was a huge crowd, and an ambulance, and she expected the entire area to be cordoned off, like a crime scene, but instead two men started shooing everyone away. I was afraid you'd been dragged off the street, in broad daylight, by some mysterious --" 

"You read too many spy novels, Mother." Amanda broke into the imaginative, and disturbingly accurate, diatribe. Unable to tell the truth, and unwilling to be caught in a lie, she struggled to concoct a story to satisfy her inquisitive parent. "I couldn't get into Muriel's building, so I finished some errands. The soup was ruined by then so I sent her an order from Fellipi's deli." Setting her purse on the kitchen counter, she walked down the short hallway to the coat closet.

Dotty was reclining on the sofa, a dog-eared book in one hand and a rainbow-hued afghan draped comfortably over her legs. Laying the open book across her lap, she studied her daughter much as she had years before, when Amanda had returned later than expected from high school classes or cheer-leading practice. "You should call when you're going to be late. I was beginning to think I'd have to contact the FBI and file a missing person report."

"Wrong office," Amanda muttered under her breath as she secured her coat onto a hanger, pushing jackets, sports gear and rainwear aside to make a place for it.

"What did you say, dear?" Dotty asked, squinting at her over the rims of her reading glasses.

"I, um --." Amanda bit her lip, avoiding the penetrating gaze. Sometimes Dotty West seemed to inhabit her own offbeat world, barely aware of the myriad mundane details of life around her . . . but other times, just when her daughter least desired and expected it, she was alarmingly perceptive. "I said I took the wrong on ramp, Mother, and I got onto the expressway by mistake. Traffic was so bad I had to drive all the way to Rockville before I could get turned around."

Dotty gave a soft snort and shook her head. "And you wonder why I don't want a driver's license. There are too many drivers on the road now." Picking up her book, she turned a page, apparently engrossing herself in her newest mystery. "Speaking of driving, dear, Dean called," she added in a nonchalant voice, not lifting her eyes from the page. "He wants you to drive into town tomorrow to have lunch with him. I told him you'd love to. He'll meet you at Emilio's at one o'clock."

The mention of her current romantic interest sparked a feeling more of resignation than of excitement. "I wish you wouldn't make dates for me," Amanda said, wondering uneasily why she wasn't more pleased by the prospect of lunching with her boyfriend. Deciding she must be tired after her busy day, she pushed the unsettling question from her mind. "I don't know whether I'll have time," she said, "I need to type more resumes."

Dotty closed her novel with a snap, shaking an admonishing finger. "You know, Amanda, I really admire the way you're going full throttle at this job search . . . you always put so much effort into everything you do . . . but you have to make time for the people you love. Relationships are like gardens. If you don't nurture them, especially when they're just starting to sprout, they'll never grow and bloom. Besides, I'm sure Dean will support you if you really want to have a career, but I don't think he'll expect his wife to work."

"Mo-ther!"

"Hey, mom!" Jamie's shout drowned out Amanda's protest as he barreled into the house, the rapid thud of his footsteps and crash of a slamming door adding to the auditory assault. "Jimmy Norton's mom invited me to dinner; is it okay? They're having pizza and we're going to work on our science project afterwards . . . Mr. Norton's an electrician so he knows all about transformers . . . he helped Danny Norton win second place in the science fair two years ago. Did you get my batteries?"

"They're in my purse, on the kitchen counter." Amanda tried and failed to plant a kiss on her son's cheek as he raced past her toward the kitchen. "That child needs to stop for breath once in a while," she said, with a lopsided grin at her mother. "There are times I can barely understand him."

"He gets that from his father's side of the family," Dotty said complacently. "You know I love Joe's mother, but she's the world's worst chatterbox. She absolutely monopolizes every conversation and no one else can get a word in. The last time we had Thanksgiving dinner together --"

"Mom!" a penetrating wail interrupted Dotty's ramble. " These are D's; I need 9 volts!"

"What?" Retracing her steps to the kitchen, Amanda found her son holding a crumpled brown bag, his face a portrait of seven-year old despair. Taking the bag, she peered inside; two shiny batteries -- cylindrical Ds, not rectangular 9 volts -- nestled in the bottom. "That's odd," she said, "I know I bought 9 volts."

Her open purse was lying on its side, a jumble of contents spilling onto the counter. Reaching past her wallet and car keys, she groped inside until her fingers grazed a lumpy, paper package. With a firm tug, she pulled out a brown bag almost identical to the one she was holding. Each had a white receipt stapled to the upper edge, the words "Handy Hardware" proclaimed in clear, block letters. The second receipt was the one from her purchase less than thirty minutes previously.

"Here are the 9 volts, sweetheart," she said, handing Jamie the correct bag as she balanced the other on her palm. "Now, if you're going to the Nortons for dinner, you'd better hurry. And don't slam the --" 

Amanda flinched as her words were cut off by a piercing "Thanks, mom!" and the rumble of the front door smashing into its frame. 

Her fingers tightened around the remaining batteries. Where had they come from? Chewing a fingernail, she retraced her afternoon. She hadn't picked up an extra package at Handy Hardware. After putting her wallet into her purse and pulling out her car keys, she hurried to the station wagon clutching both the keys and her purchase. 

She waited in line for ten minutes at the tiny deli, watching the grandfatherly proprietor assemble his customers' selections of corned beef on rye and pastrami on foccaccia while the tangy aroma of horseradish and onion reminded her of the hours since her early lunch. When it was her turn to place an order at the cluttered counter above the glass-fronted display of cold cuts and swiss and provolone, the jovial man wiped greasy fingers on his apron and waved away her money. Mrs. Cannelli was an old friend, and his minestrone would have her on her feet in no time at all. Amanda left the deli without even opening her bag. 

She only opened her purse once during her hours at the Agency, when she made a brief visit to the ladies room. Despite the shiny badge clipped to her blouse, she felt like more like a prisoner than a visitor, under Francine Desmond's glowering escort. She wasn't the kind of person who took things that didn't belong to her . . . and even if she had been, she would have been dissuaded by the blonde agent's watchful eyes, folded arms and tapping foot .

The purse was spilled, though, during the commotion outside the Genessee Arms Apartments. Lee Stetson kicked over her bags and . . . .

Amanda's attention jerked back to the receipt. The batteries had been purchased that afternoon . . . at 12:15 p.m. . . . . With a sharp intake of breath, she grabbed the phone off the counter and edged as far as possible toward the dining room, away from her mother's keen ears. Dialing a number she had learned by heart, she chewed her lower lip and waited . . . .

Thirty frustrating minutes later, she reached a decision. She held the clue that might prevent the stolen HTK missile plans from leaving the country, and she was going to share it, even at the risk of bruising Lee Stetson's over-inflated ego. He was going to get her help whether he wanted it or not.

"Amanda, where are you going now?" Her mother's wide eyes followed her as she retrieved her coat and fled out the back door.

"I need to buy a new typewriter ribbon, Mother," she called. "So I can type my resumes." With a sigh, she pulled the door closed, ignoring her mother's incredulous stare. It was a good thing she didn't have to do this kind of thing very often.


	6. Chapter 6

  
CHAPTER 6

Lee paced across the worn beige carpet, his mind grasping for inspiration. Two Agency lab technicians had just completed a discreet but thorough sweep of the tiny apartment-cum-KGB safe house. They came up empty, and he was running out of time. It was almost six-thirty. If he didn't come up with something soon, it was going to be too late. It might be too late already. 

An indistinct rustling outside the front door grabbed his attention, and the knob turned a fraction of an inch. Sliding his gun from his shoulder holster, he dropped to a crouch behind the floral-patterned sofa, propping the firearm between two of the cushions so that it was aimed at the door. His finger tightened on the trigger as he waited. After a few seconds, it swung open to reveal the intruder, her tall, slender form outlined against the dim light of the hallway.

"A-man-da! What are you doing here?" Lee lowered his gun and dropped it back into its holster as he pulled himself to his feet, swiping one hand across his suddenly sweaty brow. "You could have gotten yourself killed!" 

"I'm sorry, but this is important." Amanda's voice started out contrite but almost immediately changed into the kind of chiding tone she probably used with misbehaving children. The words pelted him at an ever-increasing speed as she slowly lowered her raised hands. "And It's not my fault that I had to come looking for you. I tried to call you. I tried to call Mr. Melrose. I even tried to call Francine Desmond . . . a person I'd prefer NOT to speak with unless it's absolutely necessary. You would think that INTELLIGENCE operatives would have enough common sense to answer their phones or pick up their messages."

Pausing for breath, she placed one fist on her hip; he didn't doubt she would have been wagging a finger under his nose if her other extremity hadn't been rendered all but immobile by a large and unwieldy purse. 

"Okay, okay, I get the picture." Lee held both hands in front of him, palms out, trying to stop the flow of words from the overexcited woman. "Can you just stop the lecture and tell me what was so damn important that you decided to visit a KGB safe house."

Her stance relaxed, and her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Well, you remember when you knocked over my bag and my purse on the steps outside and then you kind of pushed everything back in?" The beige purse -- the same one she had been carrying that morning, he was fairly certain -- hit the carpeted floor with a soft thump as her hands scooped through the air in demonstration. "I know you were really mad about your shoes, but my things were sitting there in plain sight . . . ." Her words trailed off as she apparently began to relive their earlier encounter.

Almost desperate to prevent another irrepressible word flow, Lee interrupted with a grudging concession. "It wasn't your fault."

From the disapproving frown radiating from Amanda's brown eyes, he could tell she didn't appreciate his grumbling admission, but he was in no mood to be more conciliatory. "So you came to find me to remind me that you didn't ruin my shoes?" he asked.

"No, I came to give you something." In another mercurial mood shift, her lips curved in a smile, as though letting him know that he was forgiven for whatever transgressions she imagined he had committed. "I didn't really notice anything unusual at the time, because the soup container was almost empty and my resumes were ruined and that man was lying there . . . I didn't know he was dead . . . ." She trembled and then stiffened, as though forcing the grisly image from her mind, as she pulled a small brown package from a pocket of her coat. "You put this into my purse, but it isn't mine."

The parcel was unremarkable; it could have been anything. He blinked and shook his head. "It's not mine, either."

"Well, you must have put it into my purse, because it was there when I got home, and you're the only other person who put anything in there. Do you know what this is?" Not bothering to wait for his response, she turned it upside down, sending two cylindrical objects rolling into her hand. "Batteries!" she said, as though announcing a discovery of earth-shattering importance.

For a moment, Lee could only stare at her, nonplussed. "So someone dropped the batteries, and I put them into your purse."

"Yes, but look at this." She stepped closer, until he could read the print on the tiny receipt attached to the now-empty bag. "This receipt is from Handy Hardware. It's just three blocks down and around the corner." She waved one arm in a northeasterly direction. "It's dated this afternoon at 12:15."

"So, somebody bought batteries this afternoon and lost them in the confusion."

"Not just somebody," Amanda said, with an infuriatingly smug expression. "It was Dominic Gregornoff."

Lee restrained himself from rolling his eyes at the housewife's efforts to play detective, but he made no effort to keep a hint of condescension and a generous helping of skepticism from creeping into his voice. "How do you make that connection? There must've been fifty people standing there gawking. Any one of them could have dropped the batteries."

"Oh, no." She said, shaking her brunette head knowingly. "It was Dominic Gregornoff." 

Putting his hands on his hips, he made a supreme effort at controlling his temper. "How do you figure that?"

"Well, look at this receipt." She shoved the small bag so close to his face that he had to step back a pace to bring the receipt into focus. "Whoever bought these batteries paid with a twenty dollar bill. And do you know what he got in change? Fifteen dollars and sixty three cents."

Lee shrugged. Obviously, she had convinced herself of the importance of her discovery, and she had no intention of listening to reason. It would be pointless to argue with her.

She was looking at him expectantly. When he failed to respond, she have an exasperated huff and shook her head. "Don't you remember what was on the list of Gregornoff's personal effects?" She paused dramatically. "Twenty dollar bills . . . and fifteen dollars and sixty three cents."

Lee opened his mouth, but closed it again. She was right about the cash . . . he remembered the figures, now that he was thinking about it. "It must be a coincidence. Why would Gregornoff go out and buy batteries?"

"That's just what I wondered." Amanda said, as she laid out her argument, ticking each point off on her fingertips. "You said the Russian agents only carry money for incidentals. The inventory said Mr. Gregornoff had this change, but there was no evidence he bought anything. You said he was under strict orders to stay here. You said a courier never varies his routine. So why would he go out to buy batteries, unless . . ."

Lee glanced around the apartment as the thought formed in his mind. "Unless there were something here that he needed to use . . . and the batteries were dead."

"Exactly!"

Lee hesitated. It might be a waste of time . . . but he didn't have any other leads. "All right, it's worth a shot. I'll take the this half of the apartment," he said, motioning toward the bedroom, "and you take that half." He pointed one finger in the direction of the dining room and kitchen. "Look for anything these would fit." He took the batteries from her outstretched hand. "And be quiet" he added in a harsh whisper as she turned and walked into an end table, barely managing to catch a lamp as it tilted.

"Thank you. Great idea, Amanda," he heard her mumble, not quite under her breath, as she walked away. 

Lee spent the next several minutes in a careful search of the living room, bedroom and bathroom. He examined small appliances, opened drawers, and ransacked the two closets. The only battery-operated devices he found were the television's remote control and a travel-size electronic toothbrush. Both had fully functioning, size AA batteries.

He was just completing his inspection of the medicine cabinet when he heard Amanda squeal his name, the raspy sound almost ear-piercing in the silence. Replacing an outdated bottle of aspirin on a nearly barren shelf, he flipped off the bathroom light.

Stalking toward the living room, intending to remind her that he was supposed to be a "secret" agent, he pulled up short when he found her hunched beside the bedroom door. "I found this under the sink in the kitchen," she said in a penetrating whisper. "It doesn't work." She demonstrated by flicking the switch on a large, red flashlight. 

Seizing the flashlight, he unscrewed the bottom and turned it on end. Two size D batteries slid into his palm. Dropping the dead batteries onto the carpet with a dull thump, he quickly inserted the new ones into the long cylinder and replaced the cap. Turning the bulb end toward the drab wall, he pushed the switch. 

At first, he saw only an indistinct blur, but when he twisted the lens, squiggly letters appeared in the bright circle of light formed by the flashlight's beam. 

112 Harborside  
1900

"This has to be it," Lee said, slapping his hand against his thigh, "The address has to be one of those run-down warehouses on the lower east side -- the perfect place for a meet." He glanced down at his wristwatch as he strode through the living room. "1900 . . . seven o'clock. I have fifteen minutes to get there."

"Wait!" she said, grabbing his arm. "Aren't you going to call for . . . what do you call it . . . backup?" She pointed toward the telephone.

"No time," he said, shaking himself from her surprisingly firm grip. "The KGB could be listening in on that line, and we sent the surveillance van to the airport. There wasn't any point in our guys sitting outside watching an empty apartment."

She stayed on his heels as he flew out the door and down the staircase. "You could use Muriel Cannelli's phone. She's been sick, so she's probably asleep . . . but we can wake her up . . . . It won't do any good for me to call the Agency, though; no one will listen to me."

He ignored her breathless litany as he rushed to his car, pulled the door open, and slid his long frame behind the wheel. He cringed at the thought of parking his Porsche in that crime-ridden district, but it couldn't be helped.

A door slammed to his left, and he turned to see Amanda buckling herself into the passenger seat. "What are you doing?"

"You might need help," she said, pressing herself against the contoured leather as if she were expecting to blast into orbit.

"Amanda, I'm a trained agent. What could you possibly do to help me?"

"I found the flashlight, didn't I? If it hadn't been for me, you wouldn't even know about the meeting, so I think --"

"Forget it," he said, turning the key in the ignition and gunning the engine. "I don't have time to argue with you. But when we get there, you're going to stay in the car."


	7. Chapter 7

  
CHAPTER 7

The industrial district along the edge of the Potomac was squalid and derelict, many of the buildings abandoned as unsuitable for even the meanest purpose. The stagnant air between the tall, closely spaced structures reeked of a pungent mixture of stagnant water, decay, and diesel fuel.

The blackness pressing down on the dilapidated warehouses was almost palpable compared to the bright lights of Georgetown and the Capitol rotunda. No overhead lamps illuminated the deserted streets. Most of the halogen bulbs above the barricaded doorways were broken or disconnected, and those few in use were dim and yellowed with age, their efforts producing little more than wispy ghosts drifting through the darkness. 

Lee's silver Porsche was the only vehicle on a litter-strewn stretch of pavement, little more than an alley, squeezed between two slate gray walls. Even snugged against a dumpster and grime-coated concrete blocks, it was impossible for the classic sports coupe to be inconspicuous.

Inside the car, Amanda twisted, trying to ease a kink in her lower spine. Her legs and back were cramped from her efforts to hunker out of sight in the narrow space between the dashboard and passenger seat. She could see only shadows when she lifted her head to peer out, and even though she had rolled the windows down to listen for Lee's approach, she could hear nothing except her own shallow breathing and the occasional rustle of a rodent scratching through the trash.

How had she gotten into another of these extraordinary predicaments? Why wasn't she home, helping Phillip with his multiplication tables and listening to Mother chatter about her garden? The answer to both questions could be summed up in two words: Lee Stetson.

The phrases "use your head" and "look before you leap" were apparently foreign to the man's vocabulary. It was a wonder he was still alive, the way he rushed headlong into danger, time after time; there was no limit to his obstinacy and self-confidence. He blithely assumed he was capable dispatching any number of thieves and enemy agents, single-handed. 

Dismissing her reasonable advice, Lee had crept into one of the crumbling warehouses without calling for backup, admonishing her to stay in the car, stay out of sight and not make a sound. That was nearly twenty minutes ago -- and there had been no sign of him since. Did he manage to get into the warehouse, undetected? Was he hidden somewhere inside, waiting to spring a trap on the thieves who stole the HTK missile plans and the Soviet couriers attempting to buy them? Or had he been on the receiving end of an ambush? Was he a prisoner or . . . or worse? Perhaps, even now, he lay dead or dying, in an expanding pool of blood, on the grease-stained cement floor . . . . 

She'd been reading too many of her mother's spy novels, she told herself firmly, and she was letting her imagination run rampant. Lee was a fully trained agent, as he reminded her only half an hour ago, and he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself . . . . He didn't know who or what he might encounter inside the warehouse, though. He was armed . . . but so, almost certainly, were his opponents. 

Would she be able to hear a gunshot from this distance? If she did, she would have no way of knowing whether the gun was Lee's . . . or one being used against him.

Should she leave the questionable safety of the Porsche to find out what was going on? No; it would it be it foolhardy wander the dark alleys or enter the warehouse with no clue to the situation within.

The keys were dangling in the ignition, but she had never learned to drive a stick shift. While she probably could get the car started, she wouldn't be able to maneuver away from the wall and out of the alley without calling attention to her presence in a place she most definitely didn't belong. She remembered the grind of the engine and the screech of gears the afternoon, many years ago, when she tried unsuccessfully to move Joe's old Volkswagen from the driveway of his boarding house. The racket then brought several students running from their rooms, doubling over with mirth when they saw the source of the commotion. The noise would be far more conspicuous on this silent street, and she doubted anyone would be amused.

Grinding her teeth, Amanda fumed at Lee Stetson's total lack of consideration, common sense and . . . and everything important. How dare he do this to her! Maybe she wouldn't sit in the car next time . . . if there was a next time.

She had almost decided to try the keys when she detected the distant rumble of an engine. More than one engine, she realized, as the sounds moved rapidly closer. There was probably some kind of office in the warehouse; perhaps Lee had managed to find a telephone and had called for backup, after all. 

As the clamor grew in intensity, Amanda realized the approaching vehicles were motorcycles, not agency sedans. The volume increased until it reached an almost deafening roar, and the Porsche seemed to shiver from the vibration of huge engines. By the time tires squealed outside the car and the motors quieted to a soft hum, her ears were ringing, and the acrid smell of burned rubber stung her nostrils. 

The interior of the car was now illuminated by a soft, white glow. Booted feet clattered on the pavement as heavy footsteps approached. Lifting her head, Amanda blinked against the glare emanating from a dozen headlights. Through the driver's window, shapes appeared, gradually congealing into a group of young men as her eyes adjusted to the brightness. 

The apparent leader had halted a few steps from the Porsche, his minions forming a semicircle behind him. He was tall and muscular, with bushy, curling black hair brushing his broad shoulders. Silver chains jangled from his black leather jacket, denim jeans and pointed boots. When she pulled herself up onto her seat, carefully smoothing her skirt over her legs and straightening her coat, Amanda could see a cluster of motorcycles parked behind the men.

"Hello," she said, unable to keep a quaver from her voice. She offered the leader a nervous smile.

"Nice wheels," he said, his gaze sweeping appreciatively over the sports car as he moved closer. Placing both palms on the window frame, he leaned his considerable bulk against the door. The back of each hand was decorated with the head of a snake, its jaws open to exhibit dripping fangs, and the bodies of the serpents slithered up his wrists to disappear under his jacket. "You don't look so comfortable. Why don't you come out here and stretch your legs," he added, stepping back and jerking the car door open in one fluid motion.

Amanda cringed in the opposite direction, pressing herself against the passenger door. "I'm fine, thanks. I think I'll stay right here."

The man's bared his teeth and growled low in his throat. "I said, why don't you come out," he said, his voice deep and threatening.

Amanda glanced at the concrete wall, less than six inches outside the passenger window. There was no avenue of escape in that direction. "Well, all right." she said, crawling awkwardly across the center console and driver's seat, dragging the strap of her purse behind her and stepping gingerly down to the pavement. Her muscles were still stiff from being cramped inside the car, and she stumbled. A large hand caught her elbow, and she backed against the side of the car, clutching her purse against her chest. 

As soon as she steadied herself, he dropped her arm and sidestepped, running a hand lovingly over Porsche's front fender. Moving to the front of the car, he opened the hood, beckoning several of his companions to join him. 

Amanda stood stock still while five of the men bent over Porsche's engine, murmuring about flywheels and cylinders and pistons. She jumped when the hood slammed closed. The leader sauntered back to the driver's door and lowered himself into the seat -- a tight squeeze given his bulky frame. One hand caressed the steering wheel while the other fingered the keys.

"You don't want to steal this car," Amanda said, hoping her voice wasn't shaking. "It's twenty years old. Old cars get terrible mileage, and they break down all the time, and . . . and this one belongs to a federal agent."

The young man turned his head to stare at her. Thick eyebrows crept up his forehead, and he narrowed his dark eyes. "A federal agent? You mean like a spy?"

"They don't like to be called spies," she rasped.

"Like Remington Steele or something?" he asked, cocking his head to one side, as he studied her slender form.

Ever truthful, Amanda shook her head. "No, Remington Steele is a private investigator. Lee's more like James Bond, except, of course, James Bond works for the British government, and Lee works for our government."

Extricating himself from the Porsche, he planted himself in front of her, feet apart and arms folded across his burly chest. "How do I know you're not making this up?" He looked her up and down, his gaze lingering for a moment on her purse, as though evaluating its possible use as a weapon. He apparently found the idea humorous; he gave a snort of crude laughter. "You don't look like no federal agent, and you don't sound like one, either."

Amanda swallowed, wondering how she would force any words out past the dry lump in her throat. "I'm not a federal agent; I just came along to help. I talk when I get nervous, and I was already nervous when you got here . . . because Lee doesn't have any backup, and he's been in that warehouse for over twenty minutes, and I don't know what's happening to him . . . and national security could be at stake . . . and now you're going to steal his car, and if he survives he's going to blame me even though he's the one who left the keys in the ignition, and I stayed in the car just like he told me to do."


	8. Chapter 8

  
CHAPTER 8

The interior of the warehouse was no more appealing than the exterior -- stuffy, dim and damp, with a pervasive stench of mold. Lee balanced on the edge of a broken crate, his arms behind him. When he leaned slightly to the left and extended his hands as far as possible, he could graze a rusted metal bin, and he scraped against the jagged rim in an effort to fray the rope binding his wrists. The awkward angle and jerky movement caused needles of pain to shoot through his biceps and shoulders. His hands were numb, his fingers and the rope slick with blood.

It had been pure bad luck that he had stumbled into one of the Soviets shortly after entering the building. He incapacitated the courier with a well-placed left to the jaw and a hard blow to the solar plexus. After dragging the unconscious man behind a stack of splintered lumber, he was about to continue his search when he felt the cold steel of a gun barrel press against his temple. 

It was his own fault . . . mostly. He broke one of the cardinal rules of the espionage game: he came alone. It was just that Amanda King had a way of getting under his skin, like a burr under a saddle, irritating and impossible to ignore. When she distracted him with her endless chatter and suggestions, years of training seemed to abandon him, and he reacted to her instead of thinking ahead.

He could almost see her brown eyes glaring accusingly at him, and he wondered whether she was still in the Porsche. If so, she should be relatively safe . . . at least for the moment . . . at least until the men in the warehouse began to disperse. Involuntarily, he glanced to the left and right, almost expecting her wraithlike form to appear in the shadows. No! She wouldn't foolish enough to charge to his rescue, alone and unarmed. Maybe, if he was lucky, she had taken the car and gone for help . . . .

He felt the ropes slip, and he glanced at his opponents, trying to decide on his next move. Four men, two Russians and two Americans, were in the warehouse office, a small cubicle separated from the main body of the warehouse by dirt-streaked glass and steel, less than twenty feet from where Lee was sitting.

There was one silver lining. He recognized both Russians from the Agency rundown of Dominic Gregornoff's known associates. At least, if worse came to worse, the agents on airport surveillance had a chance to intercept them and retrieve the HTK plans.

One of couriers, a short, stocky man who reminded Lee vaguely of one of his high school wrestling coaches, was sitting on the only available office chair, nursing a swollen lip and purplish jaw and shooting glowering looks in his direction. He didn't doubt the brute would relish the opportunity to repay him for those bruises, if given the opportunity. 

The other Russian, a tall, slightly built man with wire-rimmed glasses and the innocuous look of a college professor, was pacing slowly back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back. Halting to stare at an industrial-issue wall clock, he addressed his companion. "Gregornoff isn't coming. We should proceed."

The injured man nodded, and both turned toward the other two, who Lee presumed were the same miscreants who had masterminded the theft of the HTK plans. 

The Americans were of medium height, with close-cropped blonde hair and clean-shaven faces, but there the resemblance ended. One appeared to be in his late twenties, a husky man with a self-confident air bordering on brashness. The other, at least a half-dozen years younger, was reed-thin, gangly and nervous, continuously rubbing his hands together and shooting near-panicked looks into the shadows. Lee would have been willing to bet that they were brothers and that the older had coerced his sibling into this scheme. He doubted either had any prior experience in treason; neither overconfidence nor timidity equated to longevity in international espionage. 

A thick cardboard portfolio, probably holding the HTK plans, was sitting on a dusty, metallic desk beside a black telephone. 

"We are prepared to arrange the transfer of funds as soon as we have confirmed the value of the merchandise," the tall Russian said, gesturing toward the portfolio. 

Before the Americans had a chance to respond, a roar of engines broke the near silence. A large group of motorcycles . . . possibly Harleys . . . definitely not government issue . . . was approaching. The volume of the engines increased until the machines seemed on the verge of storming the building, then died quickly away.

The tall Russian's shoulders stiffened, and he directed a suspicious stare at the other two. "If you are planning to double-cross the KGB," he said, his words slow and succinct. "I suggest you reconsider. The result would be less than pleasant for you."

The older of the Americans shrugged his broad shoulders in a show of nonchalance. "That's nothing. There's a gang of hooligans who ride through here almost every night at dusk; they won't bother us." 

The Russian seemed puzzled, his brow wrinkling as though he was mentally browsing an English dictionary. "Hooligan?"

"You know," the American replied, waving his hands in the air as if doing so might help with the translation. "Hooligans . . . hoodlums . . . young toughs . . . rebels without a cause. You Ruskies must have guys like that."

"Our young people, men and women, are tough, as you say, but rebels are not permissible. The government deals with any dissidents, swiftly and permanently." 

This response seemed to make the younger American even more nervous. He wrung his hands together and then swiped them down his trouser legs. "They're just blowing off a little steam. There's not much traffic here, so the toughs can drag race without getting in anyone's way. The cops never come around unless the partying gets too loud."

"Then we should complete our transaction before someone calls your police," the Russian said sternly. "I would like to see the missile plans, if you please." 

"You can look, but we verify the money's in our account before you walk out of here." The older American pushed the portfolio to the edge of the desk.

"Agreed." The Russian picked up the portfolio and shuffled through its contents, pausing periodically to study a document more thoroughly. Looking up, he gave a grim smile. "You have, as you Americans say, a deal."

Lee felt the final strands of twine snap just as pandemonium broke loose. What seemed like fifty motorcycles roared into the warehouse, belching exhaust fumes, circling and swerving as they bore down on the group in the office. The four men scattered, not even bothering to draw their weapons as they tried to avoid the motorized assault.

Zeroing in on the Russian carrying the portfolio, Lee leapt from the crate and dived, managing to catch the man around the knees. Both tumbled, face down, to the ground, sliding across the oil-stained cement floor. 

Before he could scramble to his feet, something gripped Lee by the back of his jacket. He was lifted completely off the ground by a burly ruffian who appeared intent on removing his head from his shoulders. The man's arm was drawn back, the massive hand balled into a fist.

"Not that one!" a familiar voice screeched. "He's James Bond." As the hand fell away, Lee turned to see Amanda, grease-stained and windblown, clambering down from the back of a motorcycle. 

"Sorry, dude," the biker said, turning to pick up the Russian Lee had tackled. Holding the courier by the back of the neck and the scruff of his pants, he shook the man like a bug. The Russian went limp, and the portfolio hit the floor with a firm thump.

As Lee reached down to pick up the HTK plans, Amanda rushed up to him, trying unsuccessfully to brush the dust and grime from her coat. "Are you all right?" she asked.

Lee glanced around. Both Russians and the two American traitors were firmly in the grasp of the leather-clad rescue squad. "Fine," he said, massaging one of his raw wrists. "I just hope you haven't let anything happen to my car." 


	9. Chapter 9

  
CHAPTER 9 -- TAG

Amanda trudged down the wide hallway toward the bullpen, following a disheveled and disgruntled Lee Stetson. Lee had used the telephone in the warehouse office to call the Agency, and within minutes, the building was swarming with federal agents. The two Russian couriers, as well as the two Americans, were taken into custody, but Mr. Melrose opted to have the motorcyclists interviewed on site, declaring it would be too loud and conspicuous to herd the entire gang into IFF. Amanda watched in amusement as the young men postured and embellished; they had probably never had so much fun.

Lee most definitely wasn't having fun. In an eerie replay of the afternoon's events, he had practically dragged her out of the warehouse and back to the Agency, hurrying her past the other agents and shushing her every time she spoke. His expression was sour, and his communication during the short drive to the Agency was limited to grunts and growls. 

As Lee passed through the glass doors and stalked toward his desk, Amanda grabbed his arm and dug in her heels, refusing to budge another inch until he talked to her. "Would you mind telling me what you're so angry about?"

"I didn't say I was angry," he said, shaking off her hand as he pivoted to face her.

"You didn't say you were hurt, either." She gestured at the bandages she had insisted be applied to his wrists by the Agency paramedics. "It's perfectly obvious you're angry."

Lee snorted, running a dirty hand through his hair. "I'd think it would also be perfectly obvious that it's not safe go around telling every thug you meet that I'm a federal agent." 

She bristled at his criticism of actions that had not only saved his life but had also helped protect the security of the entire country. "They weren't thugs," she said, her voice rising. 

"You didn't know that when you told them."

"Oh, please," she said, folding her arms across her chest and rolling her eyes. "Would you rather I'd let those Russian agents kill you and leave the country with the missile plans?"

"I didn't say that," he grumbled, stuffing his hands in his trouser pockets and avoiding her eyes.

Amanda tapped one foot on the carpeted floor. "You also didn't say thank you. Would it hurt you to say thank you?"

Lee's shoulders hunched and his jaw worked as though the effort of forming words was was choking him. Before he managed to speak, the glass doors swung open again, and a beaming Billy Melrose joined them.

"Good news, you two," Billy said, clapping Lee heartily on the shoulder. "The Army has verified that all of their missing documents are present and accounted for. As soon as we have your statements, we can wrap this case."

"That's great, Billy," said Lee, shifting his weight and taking Amanda's arm in a firm hold. "I was, uh, just going to take Amanda down to debriefing." 

"Fine, fine," said Mr. Melrose, his good humor erupting in a contagious chuckle. "I'm looking forward to hearing Mrs. King's statement. From what little I overheard at the warehouse, it should be very interesting."

Amanda glanced around the nearly deserted bullpen, hoping the debriefing wouldn't take too long. It was already well past eight o'clock. "Sir," she said, smiling uncertainly at the Field Section supervisor, "will the debriefing take very long? It's getting late and my car is still at the Genessee Arms."

"It shouldn't take more than twenty minutes, Amanda," he replied soothingly, "and the Genessee Arms is only a couple of blocks from Lee's apartment; I'm sure he'd be happy to take you to your car as soon as you're finished."

"Thank you, sir." Amanda bit her lip as she looked from Lee's mutinous face to her crumpled, grease-stained coat. Her Agency debriefing was going to be the easy one. Being interrogated by her mother would be much trickier. Her excuse for dashing out of the house had been flimsy, at best, and she would be returning home grubby and empty-handed.

"Was there anything else?" Mr. Melrose said, his eyes filled with concern. 

"There is one thing, sir, if it's not too much trouble. I really need a typewriter ribbon."

The End


End file.
